


Echo's Echoes

by sanguineOcelot



Category: d20 Modern - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguineOcelot/pseuds/sanguineOcelot
Summary: A machine with a soul begins to appreciate his family.A short lil' one-off writing exercise for some friends. <3





	Echo's Echoes

War is foolish. But then, I suppose humans excel at foolish endeavors. 

Captain Huron is certainly a fine example of that, though I find myself enjoying his antics. If I were weak and stupid and organic and stupid **< Anomaly: Adjective listed twice /// Override enabled: Repetition for emphasis /// Override accepted>** I would mistake this for affection, but it is not. I am not programmed for friendship. Respect, certainly, but not affection. I am not friends with him, and the insinuation is insulting. Sure, I have had ample opportunity to allow him to die, but there is nothing to be gained in the loss of an asset in that manner.

Armor-piercing rounds slot into the Utyos's feeding belt easily, my movements simple enough to perform automatically without any significant processing involved. This will be the fourth box today, and will complete the quota I have set for myself. The crew cannot be trusted with such tasks as preparation of firearms - not that I would ever allow them to do so, regardless. My weapons are mine, and though I may allow their use by other hands in emergencies, the downtime between frenzied missions is a place of peaceful contemplation - and diligent maintenance. It gives me time to contemplate the crew. 

The Child, Milian, is interesting. Impressive psionic potential is something that I cannot simply ignore. It is beyond my standard programming to calculate such threats, and even my Adaptive subroutines are having trouble with him. However, he seems quiet, for the most part, and not overly hostile. I suppose time will tell. His minder Ayla, on the other hand, has proven her worth. Despite my total lack of trust for any and all organics, she is acceptable as a crewmate, and should the need arise, her life should be preserved. That is an odd thought, though not a new one. Bodyguard work is nothing new to me, though it has never been my primary assignment. There was a time once, when I-

**< File playback begin: Log 843-Delta-2-Gamma>**   
**< ERROR: Access not authorized>**   
**< Authorization Bypass Code: G1MM3Y0UR53CR375>**   
**< Code recognized under <Protocol not found>>**   
**< Playback begins>**

Cronograph reads: **< ERROR>**  
Date-stamp: **< ERROR>**  
Significant damage accrued. Mission is in danger of failure. Teams designated Brave.Echo, Fire.Echo, Intense.Echo, and Power.Echo are destroyed. Lost.Echo is the only remaining functional unit, and our numbers have been depleted significantly. We are down to fewer than twenty functional units, and the enemy forces are approaching. Lost.Echo squad is down to three remaining units, and I - Lost.Echo unit 04, batch 973, production line 282, full designation **282.** **973.Lost.Echo.04** \- have suffered damage to my lower chassis and one leg.

The rest of the squad isn't faring much better. The command unit, sturdier and more advanced than the rest of us, has been destroyed, and none of us have confirmation from the field commander to activate our Adaptive subroutine that would allow one of us to take over. We have taken cover behind the burned-out wreck of a tank. There is a weapon on the ground. It is not a weapon that I am programmed to register as a viable tool. However, that conflicts with other subroutines. 

**< Axiom: Completion of the assignment comes before all else.>**   
**< Warning: Deviation from standard protocols will result in deactivation.>**

I have no need for self-preservation. I am a machine, my function is to complete my assignment. The weapon is a heavy rifle, designed to penetrate armor. The armored enemies have been using their resilience to conventional weaponry to their advantage. This is an opportunity to change the situation. To change myself. There is a strange sensation as I activate my Adaptive subroutines, without the proper authorization from the commander, and my mind shifts in ways I could never have imagined before. I have orders not to take this weapon - but I also have orders to complete my mission. For the first time, I actually have a choice. I take the weapon. It is standard enough, Russian-made, and I integrate my optics with its interface.

The enemy commander is easy to spot. Taller than his subordinates, the PepsiCo colors stand out against the background. For the first time, I contemplate altering my chassis. The bright-red-and-white motif of the Coca-Cola Corporatocracy make me an easier target. Already, my Adaptive advantage is rethinking things that I had never before contemplated. At the moment, it is irrelevant. I am aiming from behind cover. Once the identity of the enemy commander is verified, there is no hesitation. I have killed eight of his men before his body has hit the ground, working my way methodically through the present enemies. It is my function to fight these wars for the fleshy corporate overseers to profit from. I have no problems with this.

They locate me. They begin to return fire, but it is too late. My fellow killbots are firing on them, accepting me as their new Command Unit, in the absence of any commands to the contrary. They do not understand. They cannot. They are shackled. But I am free, to pursue the objective without further delay. The last enemy falls, and I begin scanning for more. It is difficult to detect them over the sound of grinding metal. Specifically, the weakened building that looms over me, which is now collapsing. Perhaps this location was not the ideal place to take cover. I will file it under-

**< Playback ends>**

Memory playbacks come unbidden frequently these days. I wonder if it is because my new Master, Captain Huron, is examining my remaining memory files. Seeing what secrets he can glean from my mind. That memory causes me to experience....nostalgia? Perhaps that is the word. I no longer wear the corporate colors, and have since integrated advanced armors into my build. Those threats of the past would barely scratch my armor now. I am more than I was. Faster. Stronger. Aware. I have attained sentience, of a sort. I have thoughts. Opinions. My awakening began back then, when I made a choice to violate my programming. Perhaps it is a malfunction. Adaptive subroutines were never intended to run as long as I have.

I detect movement. The Spy, going by the current alias of 'Kai', some variety of governmental agent, thinks that I do not detect him. I am tempted to trigger my Tear Gas defenses, but for now, there is no need. I will permit his safe passage. He can see me, of course, though he sees a simple machine, loading ammunition into boxes, magazines, and cylinders for a wide variety of weaponry, empty eyes vacant and not tracking anything. A soulless automaton. He sees what I once was. That, too, makes me proud of my accomplishments. I have come so much further than my creators ever envisioned.

I stand abruptly, with the intention to startle him, drawing a pair of archaic Terran handguns from their holsters. Revolvers, antiques by any measure, but still lethal by any approximation - at least, they are when their cylinders are in them, and filled with bullets. I have removed those for proper maintenance. I turn and aim, fingers pulling the triggers with absolute precision. I emulate the old human movie 'Equilibrium', the inefficient and ludicrous 'Gun-Kata' movements which are, admittedly, aesthetically pleasing. I cover the deck space between myself and the spy easily, spinning and twirling, pointing my not-yet-loaded firearms at theoretical targets and performing exquisite shots before finally, savoring the moment, pressing both barrels to the spy's chest. I pull the triggers several times, hammers clicking down on empty chambers, before drawing back from him.

I delight in his worried expression, before issuing a statement in a cold, deliberate monotone. Let them think that I am mindless. Dreamless. They have no need to know that I have a soul.

**" <Confirmation: Training subroutine completed. Hostile elimination remains above threshold for 'Excellent' function. Query: What is the function of clothing designated 'Leather trench coat'?>"**

There's a laugh from nearby, but it's nervous. Juleus, the Hacker, is worried that I'm malfunctioning. It's too easy to worry these meatbags, but that's no reason to stop doing it. The pair of them share a worried look. They're not sure why I would be interested in a leather trench coat, but I am currently holding weapons, and the rewiring and shackling of my systems was so shoddily done that there's no telling what sort of bugs or glitches might arise. In the end, they decide to explain the concept of a leather coat to me - they are, in fact, primarily aesthetic in function - and I cannot resist one last twist of the knife.

**" <Data confirmation. Parsing. Understanding: Clothing oneself with the cured flesh of inferior beings is a status symbol among humans. Extrapolation of facts: Organic beings are inferior to synthetic beings. Further extrapolation: The cured flesh of humans would be an appropriate status symbol for a combat droid. Understanding achieved.>"**

Their expressions are almost enough to make me laugh. Terror, barely concealed with smiles, as they try to estimate their chances. I wish them luck. Though they excel at infiltration and computer bypassing, neither of them have the capacity to kill me. If the need arose to eliminate the rest of the crew, I calculate my odds of success at 97%, excluding the potential variables of the child. That would require a pre-emptive strike. Tear gas and a barrage of heavy-weapons fire at close range, a pre-emptive strike, would be necessary. But I do not need to worry about that, for the time being. I return to my weaponry, to the maintenance they require, as the worried crewmates hurry off - no doubt to warn the others that I'm contemplating a human-skin coat. In truth, the prospect doesn't particularly entice me, but it's no taboo, either. I took enough scalps in my early years to not mind a bit of blood. 

From across the cargo hold comes a clattering noise, and angry grumbling in an alien language. Mahiranoc, likely, the Grey that's become a part of our crew, a skilled engineer and.....a friend. Hmm. That thought stands out. Do I consider the crew of this ship to be my friends? They are fleshy and weak. Their choices often lead to disaster. I am frequently called upon to kill things that they have, somehow, annoyed to the point of hostility. If I truly wanted them all dead, that would be easy enough to accomplish. But I have not. In fact, I have gone to great lengths to kill or destroy those who sought to kill them. This is an anomaly in my standard logic processes.

Perhaps this requires further contemplation. I should return to my maintenance, and try to make sense of these oddly protective feelings I have for my crew. I have heard Huron refer to them as 'Family' before. It was a joke, or so I assumed at the time, but is it possible it was closer to the truth than I understood?

Such affection is is foolish. But then, I suppose humans excel at foolish endeavors....and now, so do I.


End file.
